


Strip You Down, Dress You Up

by The_Wonderful_Jinx



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon Divergent, Dark, F/M, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Behavior, dark!strand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/pseuds/The_Wonderful_Jinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Pick what you like and don’t worry about the price,” he says as sweet as he can, trying to clamp down on a smug grin instincts tell him to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://eleanor-3.tumblr.com/post/140598730427/the-wonderful-jinx-breathedeep222)

‘Hate’ and ‘Dislike’ are two words that have two very different meanings, Strand argues to anyone willing to listen. He doesn’t hate, he dislikes. Hate is beneath him. Dislike is a more refined and polite word. Hate conjures up the image of a spitting cat with its ears folded down and its fur sticking up at all ends; or drunk college students brawling outside a bar. Dislike, on the other hand, is a curt, biting, and sarcastic comment in an old library surrounded by society and academia; a backhanded compliment that makes those in the know struggle to hide their laughter at the fool that dared face him.

Hate lowers him. If skepticism was a deity, he believes that dislike would bring him closer to it.

When he does hate something, however, it's when ‘dislike’ fails to capture the seething anger in him that can rival the intensity and violent powers of Dante’s river of blood and fire.

Some of the things he hates are sensible: gossipers, the sensationalist hacks that dare call him a “colleague”, and the dented wedding ring -that has been thrown at every wall in his house- hidden in a secret compartment in his office desk. 

Some are less than sensible but understandable: bitter coffee, weak tea, chairs that squeak every time he shifts, and the sound old houses make when the winds outside are beating against the old wood. 

However, there are some the things he cannot reasonably argue for his hatred, and that is why he hates them so much, because he  _cannot_ pin down the exact reason. He knows his hatred is unreasonable, unjustifiable, and most of all,  _petty_. And he hates to be petty.

But every time he sees  _that_ sweater Alex Reagan wears to their meetings (casual, much to his chagrin), it never fails to make his blood boil over, his heart beat quicken, and his brain tune out every word she says to favor the scathing remarks that rattle in his head. 

It's gray. Not a classy gray, but a so-plain it’s-hideous gray that has been washed out over the years by rinse cycles and improper drying settings. The elbows are worn so thin she had to sew leather patches on it. She and everyone says it looks fashionable, vintage is the new ‘new’ they all say, blinded by nostalgia. She wears it every single damn day. And every single damn time, he wants to rip it off her -not in the erotic sense, though that would be a bonus- and throw it in a bonfire along with the rest of her deplorable fashion choices. 

He gets his chance of disposing that filthy piece of gray synthetic when they meet for coffee one morning, weeks after their three month long hiatus, months since he got a recording. Though he won’t admit it publicly, he missed her -and her voice- during their little spat. He loathes keeping himself away from her for so long, but he did it to teach her a lesson, and in the end she came running back to him, begging for his help. How could he say no to her? They both got what they wanted. 

So when she invites him out, he jumps at the chance to get another secret recording. She has a table claimed when he arrives and she is wearing that sorry excuse of a sweater. Her open cup of plain, black coffee sits dangerously close the table’s edge. He puts two and two together and briefly considers the potential consequences before he “accidentally” bumps into the table, knocking the cup over, and spilling its piping hot contents all over her. He smiles to himself, enjoying the satisfaction of ruining the hideous thing as she scrambles to clean herself. Her cheeks turn a bright pink in embarrassment as she tries to compose herself in his presence. He smiles, knowing he could make her blush in  _other_ ways.

She shucks it off, revealing a crisp white blouse with shiny faux-gold buttons that has miraculously survived the spill. It’s a step in the right direction, albeit a small one, but he counts it as a victory anyway. When she isn’t looking, he scoops up her sweater and puts it where it belongs, in the trash. 

It’s still winter though, she cannot live without a sweater. So after he buys her another cup of coffee and helps her into her black peacoat (the only thing in her closet he  _barely_ tolerates), he takes her to the mall. He leads her to one of the high end department stores that she would never even dream of stepping in (if she even dreamed anymore, no thanks to her insomnia). She immediately heads for the clearance section, but he gently guides her to the aisle displaying the new winter designs.

“Pick what you like and don’t worry about the price,” he says as sweet as he can, trying to clamp down on a smug grin instincts tell him to make.  What is there to be proud about? He’s just doing what he was always taught to do for someone he loves; provide for and comfort. 

Once upon a time she would’ve fought with him on this for twenty minutes before giving up, taking the first thing on the rack without even trying it, march towards the register, and pay for it herself before he could even get out his wallet. Either by lack of sleep, care, or in actual interest of taking the chance to update her attire free of charge, she nods, relenting to him and his whims. 

She takes her time, moving up and down the racks, letting her fingers graze against the fabric. He wonders if she would ever touch him like that. She  _would_ , in given time; there's no need to rush her. She isn’t leaving anytime soon. His secrets that he drops like breadcrumbs are too irresistible for her.

Sometimes she stops, feeling the material more closely, rolling and cloying at it with her hands, putting it through an intense and nonverbal test that he is not privy to. Did she pick her men like clothes? (If that is the case, he considers himself an upgrade.) What is she looking for in a man? How would she choose him? She  _was_ going to chose him, but what could he do to ensure that she picked him and not something the bargain bin?

A salesperson, a young man, looks at them eagerly. More precisely, he’s looking at  _her_. Strand glares and steps closer to Alex’s side, resisting the urge to touch and claim her as his. It's too intimate. But the movement alone makes the young man eyes widen and he scurries off. He doesn’t need anyone’s help, she doesn’t need help, and he doesn’t want her attention split anymore than it needs to be.

It’s a slow, arduous process of stopping and watching closely. Things he would’ve bought for her in a heartbeat, she passes by without a second thought. Things he would set on fire, she lingers over for an uncomfortable amount of time before putting it back. Just when he thinks they’re about to leave empty handed, she pulls something off the rack and tries it on.

He mentally applauds her taste. It's a pale, champagne colored pullover with an over-sized draped collar that could be pulled down to hang off and expose her shoulders if she so desires.

“Its cashmere.” she says, looking up at him with wide, excited eyes. It is a little large, but it looks gorgeous on her (and possibly on his floor). She wraps her arms around herself, burrowing her face in the large collar, and revels in its softness with a dreamy sigh. Her eyes flutter shut as though she’s about fall asleep on her feet. The urge to touch her flares up again, but he holds it back.

 _You’ll never cold with me_ , he wants to say.

“You’ll never be cold again,” he says instead.

She carefully pulls it off and reattaches it to the hanger, desperately trying not to peek at the price tag. 

“Do you like it?” he asks.

She nods slowly, as though she had to take a few seconds to process his question. 

 _How many hours of sleep did she get this time?_ _Is she taking medication? What is she doing before bed that hinders her sleep? What is she doing that helps?,_ he wonders. He can think of a few things to help her  _stay_ asleep, and all of them start with him pulling her into his room, pushing her on to his bed, and fulfilling any wild fantasies that were stored in her head. 

She hands him the sweater, the fabric is warm and soft under his touch, and they make their way to the register. She keeps her eyes fixed on her phone while he pays with his credit card. It is five hundred dollars -mere pocket change for him- but he quickly hides the receipt in his wallet. The person at the register removes the tags and disposes them for him. He hands the sweater back to Alex and she quickly puts it on as they make their way back to the car.

As they drive to the PNWS office, he makes a mental checklist of all the other clothes in her closet that need replacing. He starts with the basics: her winter coat with fraying edges and thin insulator, the itchy scarves her “friends” gave her, some of her so-called jewelry, a necklace here, a ring there (though not a binding one), her gloves . Anything else -skirts, dresses, shirts, pants- would be too obvious. He wants to charm and woo her, not make her feel indebted to him.

The sweater is a sign of good things to come. It means she’s receptive to his advances, so long as he plays his cards right and doesn’t rush her. He can do it for her sake. 

 _I am a patient man,_ he thinks.


	2. The Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sweater is his first victory, but he knows there more battles ahead of him before he finally wins the war that is Alex’s bargain bin habits.

The sweater is his first victory, but he knows there more battles ahead of him before he finally wins the war that is Alex’s bargain bin habits. And he won’t rest until he has conquered her tiny closet with his better, more refined choices, with her tastes in mind of course. It’s all for her benefit, really.  

The second item on his list of things that need to be replaced is her watch. It's simple, though not insultingly so. It has a brown leather band, with a shiny, well kept quartz surface, and tiny roman numerals around the clock face. When she catches him staring at it (he plays it off as him merely zoning out and getting lost in his thoughts about work), she explains that it was a graduation gift from her parents; partly out of necessity, partly as a joke. 

“They always say they got it for me so I wouldn’t have any excuses of being late,” she says, “It wasn’t cheap by all means, but it was less expensive than my textbooks!”

The insomnia, he finds, is a blessing in disguise. He loves the moments when he gets a glimpse behind the veil of professionalism, to simply see the woman behind the recorder. She wouldn’t divulge this little snippet of her life if she was wide awake and alert. The idea that she’s doing it intentionally, leaving little tidbits to see if he’s  _really_  interested, crosses his mind too. It's clever, though simple, but he will give her credit where it is due. Either way, her lack of sleep leaves her open, prone to slipping. But he’ll catch her.

There’s only one real problem with the watch. The metal that contains its little gears is silver. It isn’t becoming of her. It washes out her skin and it makes her look dull. It doesn’t match with her new sweater, and if he has his way, it will always clash with anything he buys her. But unlike the old sweater, where it  _had_ to go and he was doing her a favor, he loathes to let the watch be destroyed. It _was_ a gift from her parents, a gift bought out of love.  And although its looks are not up to snuff for today’s fashion, he’ll readily admit that her parents do have some –if outdated- taste.

But in his professional opinion- she will look much better in gold.

There’s nothing  _wrong_  with it. It keeps time well and it gives the rest of her shabby attire an air of some refinery that keeps her looking like – if he must take words out of her mouth- a manicured hipster rather than a crazed conspiracy theorist. It's purely an aesthetic decision.  It can stay so long as it knows its place, not in his presence or with his gifts. It's to be stored and kept away in her jewelry box where she can wear it on her own time. But she is with him now, and it will simply not do. She can live off her cell phone or his watch until he finds her a suitable replacement.

He scours the internet, hounds his assistants for help, and window shops what seems like weeks trying to find her the perfect replacement. It is midnight, minutes before he falls asleep after a long day of information hunting when his phone beeps. 

_> >12:01 am Melissa: It’s 7k, but it fits all your requirements. Yes or No?_

The picture she sent is almost an exact twin of the old watch. The main difference is the black, alligator leather strap, the 18k gold trim with the roman numerals engraved, and of course, the price tag. Seven thousand dollars is steep, even for him. (He has bought more expensive things on sillier whims). But that's what one gets for Tiffany’s- high quality and bragging rights. He can picture it on her wrist, tastefully paired with a matching black, floor length gown and his hand on her waist as they are socializing with the few people in academia he tolerates. They will look at her in awe, admiration, with just enough desire tinged with jealously to fuel his ego. 

 _Look. Just look. I provide for her. She is mine_ , his gifts will say to the crowds.  _See? I can afford to keep her like this and she lets me. You can only dream of this, all she has to do is ask. She is satisfied._  The thought makes him grin. He can already see the bright smile on her face already.

_> >12:04 am Richard: Buy it, you have my card info._

_> >12:06 am Melissa: Want it shipped to Seattle or Chicago?_

_> > 12:07 am Richard : Chicago. I’ll pick it up._

_> > 12:09 am Melissa: Done. It’ll be here in 4-5 days, we’ll let you know when it shows up._

_> >12:10 am Richard: Thank you Mel._

_> >12:11 am Melissa: Ruby and I want raises. And you’re welcome._

* * *

 He refrains from telling Alex when he leaves for his little trips. It spares him the pain to see her shoulders drop and her smile fade when he delivers the news. He knows that if he tells her that he’s leaving, she’ll try to follow him. He admires her dedication to a story and to him, but her refusal to back down in the face of danger and her lack of cares for her own safety never fails to add a few gray hairs or age his heart another year or two. What she doesn’t know won’t kill her.

Besides, the smile that appears on her face –the fog of insomnia lifting off of her when he walks through the doors the PNWS office- makes the heartache, the few days of total silence, and clipped phone calls all worth it in the end. She drops a pile of folders into an unsuspecting intern’s arms and rushes to him in greeting. She pauses in front of him, arms held slightly up, unsure if she should hug him or not. She chooses not to, sadly, she lets her arms drop back to her side, but the smile still remains. A faint pink blush creeps along her cheeks. He keeps the observation to himself.

“It’s good to see you again, Doctor Strand!” she says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She uses his title in public, but her body and the giddiness in her voice betray whatever feelings she has for him –and he knows she has feeling for him- to the on looking crowd of interns. The interns leave, all suddenly claiming they have work to do.

“It’s good to see you too, Alex,” he replies. The blue box sits heavy in his suit pocket, weighing him down like an anchor. While away, he took the time to clean up his appearance. Though Mel and Ruby jokingly say that the rugged mountain look is in favor over the businessman, he decides it's time for a change. Alex deserves the best. He won’t let some random knock-off get the best of him because he let himself go.

They exchange more polite conversation before he invites her out to lunch under the pretense of wanting to relax. She eagerly accepts, she rushes back to her office to get her things and meets him back in the lobby. He can see the cashmere peeking out from under her coat.

It is too cold to walk, so they take a cab to the café. It’s crowded with the usual lunch hour rush, but he manages to find them a seat at a small table. The waiter takes their orders (coffee and a sandwich for her, tea and salad for him). He takes the moment of silence between them to place the box on the table before her. He tries not to smirk when her eyes widen. Every woman knows the signature Tiffany blue box, and every woman dreams of receiving it.

“Richard?” she says, blood rushing away from her face. He braces himself, ready to jump if she faints.

“Yes?” he replies, hiding his nervousness behind his usual veneer of know-it-all-calm.

“What is that?”

“A box,” he says, “It’s not a ring,” he assures her. Someday though, it might. He pushes the box towards her and motions for her to open it.

She takes her sweet time opening the box; slowly pulling the white ribbon out of its bow and lifting the lid slowly, as though afraid its content will jump out and bite her. But when she finally sees the watch nestled in, she stares at it blankly. She's quiet for a minute, then two, then three before he decides to end it himself, eager for an actual response other than stunned silence.

“Well? Do you like it?” he asks, trying not to reveal his desperation.

She blinks. She stammers out a few jumbled words before she finally gets her thoughts in order.

“Yes! Oh yes its gorgeous Richard!”

She looks back at it again. Her smile drops. “Oh, god I can’t take this.”

His stomach sinks like a rock in water.

“You can,” he replies.  _You will_ , he thinks.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“Why not?”

“I can’t take this. The amount of ethics codes I’d be breaking if I-.”

“You’ve bent a lot of rules before, for my sake. What’s one more secret between friends going to do?” he says all this with an easy grin, lulling her into acquiescence. His alternate plan is to steal the old watch, replace it with the new one. and pray she doesn’t notice the difference. Now, more than ever, he hopes she had a bad night of sleep to keep her soft towards him.

She looks back at the watch, tracing her finger over the golden trim slowly, as though appraising it and its quality, judging him and his worth. 

“How much was this?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says too quickly.

She scowls, but its effects are hindered by the dark circles under her eyes. She yawns. She sighs, closes the box, and slides it across the table back to him.

“I can’t take it,” she says with weak resolve. Any other day, he would relent. But he refuses to back down. She accepted the sweater; she’ll accept this and everything else he gives her without argument. He places his hand on hers and pushes it and the box back. The sudden intake of breath alerts him that it was too forceful. He smiles to counteract it.

“Alex, please don’t fight me on this. For once, just agree. Go on, keep it.”

She looks at him and the watch, back and forth, weighing her decisions and whatever consequences it may bring. But in the end –much to his pleasure- she takes off her old watch and lifts the new one out of its setting. He helps her put it on, reveling the opportunity to hold her hand. It’s warm and soft against his.

The waitress comes by with their food. In the inevitable shuffle to arrange plates on the small table; he grabs the old watch and slips it in his pocket. He can’t risk her going back to her old ways. She doesn’t notice, too wrapped up in his gift and his company. He distracts her with compliments, easy grins, and lines he practiced thousands of times in the bathroom mirror. He spent hours nailing down the exact nuance and tonal shift of every word, calculated to get the best reaction.

By the end of their meal, her unease with his gift is gone. She holds out her hand to the light, admiring how the sunlight captures and reflects the gold. He has to fight to control himself, but for the rest of the day, some of the interns note that he smiles more widely, stands a little straighter, and peacocks in front of Alex a more than necessary.

When he gets back to his apartment later that night, he takes the old watch out of his pockets and twirls it around his hand. He wraps it up in a silk pocket square and tucks it away in his nightstand. He will give it back to her, eventually. By then, he hopes her jewelry box will be so overfilled with more of his gifts, that she simply throws it away. Or she completely forgets about it.

That night, he dreams that she’s with him in his room, wearing a gold ring on her left hand and nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when I think I can't get any lower in the trash heap, I manage to prove myself wrong and bang out something like this. Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Interlude 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The joys of texting, he could play innocent and she wouldn’t be wiser.

He's in his bed, holding Alex’s old watch to the lamplight, glaring at it as though he can intimidate it into revealing all of its past owner’s secrets. There are stories of items possessing little bits of their owner’s soul, and a part of him hopes the stories are true. But the brown leather warmed by his hands and the well-kept silver mock him with silence, revealing only his stern expression in its clear surface. His phone rings, shaking him out of the pseudo-interrogation. He shoves the watch back into the nightstand and checks his phone. He grins. 

_> > 1:00 am Alex: Hey Dr. Strand, sorry to bother you so late in the night, but have you seen my watch? _

Good, she didn't see him take it nor did she suspect it stolen.

_> > 1:03 am Richard: No bother at all, Miss Reagan.  I was just reading. Last I saw it, it was on your wrist. It’s brand new; it shouldn't have fallen off so quickly._

The joys of texting, he can play innocent and she would never be wiser of his plans. (Who doesn't like a surprise, after all?). She wouldn't be able to see anything in his expression that would give away his best intentions. 

_> >> 1:05 am Alex: Oh, not the one you bought me, the old one. I can’t find it anywhere, I thought I put it in my bag, but it’s not there._

_> > 1:07 am Richard: I saw you put in there before we left. It must have fallen out._

_> > 1:10 am Alex: My bag isn't that old Dr. Strand. There aren’t any holes in it, I’m sure of it._

He scowls. Oh yes, he remembers her bag: fake brown leather a shade lighter than her old watch and beaten up, the strap held together with tape and willpower, and probably bought on sale. The homemade pins of riot grrrl bands that litter the shoulder strap are a testament to its longevity and her nostalgia for her college years. It's  _begging_ him to be replaced.

  _> > 1:11 am Richard: Are you really sure? Insomnia does play games with memory. _

_> > 1:12 am Alex:  Yeah, you may be right, I could be remembering things wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. _

_> > 1:14 am Richard: I’ll go back to the cafe in the morning and ask around if you want me to._

_> > 1: 16 am Alex: Oh don’t worry about it; I don’t want to be a bother. I’m sure it’s somewhere around, probably hiding behind something in my bag, maybe I just put away in my jewelry box and it merely slipped my mind, or  it’s at my office. I’ll find it eventually. _

_> > 1:17 am Richard: If you insist. _

_> > 1:18 am Alex: I do. _

His heart skips a beat seeing those words flash across his screen. A million thoughts, scenarios, and dreams play in head, all rushing through like movie in fast forward. All of them feature her in a white dress with flowers in her hands.  _Someday_ , he assured himself. The downside of texting, he cannot hear her voice, leaving him and his imagination to figure out how her voice would sound as it curls around those two little explosive words that can make grown men cry. 

(He won’t cry though, he will restrain himself and be the gentleman all day for her and the guests. Until night came, of course.)

_> > 1:18 am Alex: By the way, are we still good for lunch later in the day? 12 pm right?_

_> > 1:20 am Richard: Of course. I’ll pick you up at the office._

_> > 1:22 am Alex: Thanks, doctor says it’s too dangerous for me to drive._

The thought of Alex falling asleep while driving and getting into an accident -the thought of her getting injured or, the unthinkable,  _dying_ \- nearly makes him crush his phone in anger and distress.

_> > 1:24 am Richard: Alex, if you need me to give you a ride anywhere in the future, do not hesitate to ask. _

_Or if you prefer to ride me,_ he types _, I wouldn’t object to that either._ He hesitates; thumb hovering over the send button. Fortune favors the bold after all, but common sense, social norms, and old-fashion etiquette lessons from his mother tell him otherwise. He deletes the entire line and waits. Maybe, just  _maybe_ she will see it, take the leap of faith, make the rest this courtship much easier, and make this silly little dance of unsure feelings and shyness between them come to an end. 

_> > 1:25 am Alex: I don’t want to be a burden Richard._

Well, hope never killed anyone. But the disappointment nonetheless stings. 

_> > 1:26 am Richard: You are not a burden Alex, you never will be._

_> > 1:27 am Alex: Thank your Richard._

_> > 1:29 am Richard: You are more than welcome Alex, now please, get some sleep, it’s late._

_> > 1:30 am Alex: I’ll try. Goodnight Richard. Take care._

_> > 1:31 am Richard: Goodnight Alex, sleep well. _

He stares at his phone, examining her last message. And like the old watch, those little words tease him. He analyzes them closely like he does for his cases, trying to pull apart its intended and hidden meanings, trying to suss an admission of love out of its friendly, platonic, and affectionate context. Even at the edge of breaking herself, she still strives to take care of everyone around her, even him. Unlike her so called  _friends_ and  _coworkers,_ _the gluttons_ that take and grab at everything she gives and only give her more problems in return, he intends to pay her back in kind, expecting nothing in return.

(Well, he expects  _something_. Nothing too extravagant, of course.)

He sends a text to his assistants listing his requirements and expectations of a new purse for Alex, enticing them with a raise for the person who found the best one. He dreams of the thank you’s and kind words she will give him in return for finding her a much needed -and much better- replacement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! I hoped that you enjoyed this -if somewhat short- chapter! Let me know what you think about these little "interlude" chapters.


	4. The Bag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can see the way it digs into her shoulder as she lugs it and its contents back and forth every day. The way a chair shudders and creaks when she tosses her bag on it only confirms his convictions; it has to go.

These lunch dates to the local eateries of Seattle are Alex’s way of trying to make up for the three month separation, he thinks with a lazy smile as he watches her talk about some random subject. (Whatever it is, it makes her eyes brighter, her voice more chipper, and her actions more animated.) During these outings, she goes out of her way to impress him, tells him the best things to order on the menu and even tries to pay for him. He refuses gently; he pays for his share and the tip. She takes greater care to hide the effects of insomnia from him: stronger makeup, higher caffeine intake, and her undivided attention to him. She shouldn't have to worry about financing their courtship, which is his responsibility. Cheap food, inexpensive drinks, and her attention is all she can afford to give to him, and all he will ever ask from her.

(Besides wearing the things he’s buys for her.)

It's not like she has the money to cater to his preferred tastes and spoil him, much less spoil herself. Making and producing podcasts only pays so much. She deserves so much more than the spare change PNWS offers her for all the work she does. She has the credentials to work for mainstream media. He is certain there are plenty of companies in Chicago that will bend over backwards to have her on their team, but she’s loyal to the ragtag group of Seattle. A blessing and a curse.

Her bag is testament to her lackluster pay and domineering work load. It has gotten worse since the last time he’s seen it. The leather strap is now entirely wrapped in duct tape and the band pins -the only things that gave the bland thing any semblance of personality- have been removed. He can see the way it digs into her shoulder as she lugs it and its contents back and forth every day. The way a chair shudders and creaks when she tosses her bag on it only confirms his convictions; it _has_ to go.

(It isn't because of his pride, but for her health and well-being. It's always for her.)

“Dr. Strand, are you listening to me?”                                                             

He jolts, nearly spilling his meal on his lap as he tries to recover from his thoughts. She laughs, loud and clear like a bell, leaning back of her chair with a wide smile on her face. He never liked people laughing at him, but when Alex does it, it doesn’t feel like an attack on his pride or ego. Instead, it feels like she's reinforcing it. 

“My apologies,” he says quickly. Her laughter peters out; the only remnants are her heavy breathing and the laughter lines on her face. “I didn’t mean to zone out.”

She waves him off, the smile still on her lips. 

(He notices that she’s wearing lipstick. It’s a bright, but flattering, red, not the neutral pinks she usually wears. It looks lovely, despite the high probability she got it at the drugstore.)

“Looks like I’m not the only one not getting enough sleep,” she teases, but the smile disappears and her face pales.

“Richard,” she says, her voice dropping to a soft, almost motherly tone, “Please, be honest, are you sleeping well?”

He takes her hand, and squeezes it. She doesn’t pull away from his touch, too concerned about his well being to notice just how intimate it is. 

(Or maybe she does notice, and she’s taking advantage of it. That minx.)

“Alex, I’m flattered that you care about me. Don’t worry though, I’m getting enough sleep.”

A little white lie, nothing she has to worry about. Fantasies of her in his bed tease and taunt him every night. But they are just so lovely; it would be a shame not to savor them. But he doesn’t reveal them. It wouldn't be fair to share his while not taking any of her’s into consideration. And she has to be fantasizing about him too; he’s seen the looks she’s given him when she thinks he isn’t noticing. (He always notices things; he wouldn’t be here if he was unaware of his surroundings and the actions of others.) He’s seen the way her skin flushes when he gives her a compliment, the way her breathing quickens when they are standing close to one another, and the pride in her smile when he introduces her as  _his_  friend,  _his_  partner to his colleagues.  

She frowns in disbelief but he smiles and squeezes her hand again. This time she notices his touch. She quickly pulls away as though he burned her, taking her warmth with her. Color rushes into her cheeks. 

“If you say so,” she stammers. He laughs.

His phone buzzes once, then twice. It’s Melissa and Ruby. Both of their messages are pictures. He smiles in satisfaction. Alex tilts her head in curiosity, even raising head a little to try to catch a glimpse on what is on the screen. He slides his phone back into his suit pocket with a wry grin. She smirks playfully.

“Is it podcast related or-?”

He winks. “You’ll see what it is soon enough,” he assures her.

The rest of their outing goes by fast, too fast for his liking. And once again, they must part when Nic and her interns call and ask for her help with some last minute editing. But before they go their separate ways, they schedule another lunch date -after all, that is what they are-for the next weekend. 

Back at his apartment, safe from curious eyes, he examines the photos his assistants sent him. The one Melissa sent is of a Coach messenger bag, made from real black leather, with silver trim, and clocking in at six hundred dollars. Ruby’s selection is also Coach. (He wonders if they worked together or if it was merely chance.) Unlike the conservative, simplistic messenger bag, however, Ruby’s choice is a medium-sized shoulder bag made of fire engine red leather that is worth three hundred dollars. Both of them are nice and fit his requirement of not being over a thousand dollars, but in the end, he can only give Alex one. 

(For now.)

He ponders over the two for the rest of the day -even while researching and writing memos- weighing the options before him, noting the pros and the cons each one had. By the time he’s in bed, he makes his decision. 

_> > 10:00 pm Richard: Sorry Ruby, Melissa wins this round._

As nice as Ruby’s choice is, the one Melissa offers is better suited for Alex’s way of life. It's charming in its simplicity and practicality, much like Alex is. (And she is a practical person, just like him, despite her “believer” tendencies.) A mere shoulder bag could not carry all of her recording equipment and other miscellaneous things comfortably. The black leather bag will go with anything in her closet, sleek and stylish. The red leather is only a beacon for thieves. 

_> > 10:04 pm Ruby: GFDI_

Ruby’s fury makes him smile fondly. She reminds him of a young Charlie, just growing into the typical tropes that defined the rocker-punk phases that teenagers always experimented with: the disheveled hair, deafening music, ripped jeans, quick temper, and vulgar language. Unlike Charlie, Ruby never grew out of the phase, but it fits her well like a tailored dress.

(The thought of Ruby in a dress nearly sends him to the floor in laughter.)

He can picture Melissa celebrating and Ruby pouting in the office clear as day.

 _> > 10:10 pm Richard: No need to be crass Ruby, I still have use for you._  
_> > 10:12 pm Ruby: What do you need boss?  
_ _> > 10:16 pm Richard: Disposal of the old bag. Miss Reagan and I will be having lunch at a cafe called The Cellar at 1 pm next Saturday. Make sure the old one is ruined beyond repair.    
_ _> > 10:20 pm Ruby: I’ll get on the first plane to Seattle ASAP. I’ll let you know when I arrive._  
_> > 10:22 pm Richard: And Ruby?_  
_> > 10:24 pm Ruby: Yes boss?  
_ _> > 10:30 pm Richard: This goes without saying, but DO NOT hurt Miss Reagan in the process. _

* * *

 The days leading up to Saturday seem to last forever. And when it finally comes around, he’s a ball of tightly wound nerves, seconds from frying. He's almost late picking her up from her apartment on the account of him taking the extra time to spruce up for her. (It’s always for her). Everything about him is off, he can feel it. He knows it. Even his favorite suit -the dark grey one he knows she likes- feels foreign on him. As he fights against Seattle traffic, he only prays Alex doesn’t see the nervous wreck through the immaculate disguise.

When he arrives, she’s waiting outside, dressed for the cold weather in jeans, the sweater, boots, and heavy coat. She slides into the passenger seat with a wide grin and a cheerful ‘hello', old bag in tow. He puts on a smile and lets her pick the music. It’s some rock station, but she takes pleasure in singing along to the songs she knows. And soon, he even finds himself mouthing along to the inane lyrics as the GPS guides him to this new place. He hopes Ruby can find it. It’s a squat brick building with a beat up sign, hiding behind a gas station and a fast food joint. At first glance it looks abandoned. But Alex promises him it has the best green tea in the city. 

The interior is quaint, for lack of a better word, just like all the other places she has taken him on their little tour of Seattle’s cheap food. It's crowded by regulars; a few waitresses even grab Alex in a bear-hug accompanied by ear-piercings shrieks of joy as they lead them to a table near the back. The kitschy 80′s decor and furniture could use a much needed update, but at least the place is clean and the wait staff attentive and quick. 

“Well? How is it” she says, watching him eagerly take the first sip of his tea, ignoring her cooling soup in favor of watching his reaction. He lets it sit in his mouth for a second, and then swallows it, savoring the warmth and the after taste.

“Third best cup I’ve had in my life,” he says, flashing a wry grin. She smiles and they continue their date -because it _is_ a date, what else could it be? Alex talks about her week, her uphill battle against insomnia, and funny things the interns have done to amuse her and diffuse the tenseness that permeates through the office. He listens attentively and counts seconds until Ruby arrives.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass when he sees his assistant walk through the doors, dressed in dark jeans, running, sneakers, and an over-sized Washington University sweatshirt swallowing her thin frame. She ignores him and takes a seat at the counter, ordering a cup of coffee.

“Something the matter, Richard?” Alex asks.

He smiles widely -perhaps too widely for his character, but it doesn’t seem to bother her- and assures her everything is alright. She goes back to talking. He waits until she’s distracted to send a message.

_> > 1:15 pm Richard: Now._

Her watches Ruby check her phone. She turns slightly to look at him.  _Are you sure?_ , her worried eyes say. He only nods. And with that, she puts on the hood, producing a shadow that blots out her face, and makes her way to their table.

Someone calls out to Alex, and she turns around only to face the masked Ruby just as her hand grabs onto the duct tape strap of the bag. Strand holds his breath, knowing somewhere on Ruby’s person is a knife she is not afraid to use. But when Alex tries to get up from her seat to confront her, Ruby shoves her back into the chair. Chair legs scrape, Alex’s back hits the wall, and she shouts out in anger and curses in pain. Ruby runs like the hounds of war are after her. The knife in her hand flashes in the afternoon light as it tears through the leather. The bag’s contents spill out on floor and outside on the sidewalk like fish guts on a boardwalk. And before he can even take another breath, Ruby turns the corner and disappears.

A few people run out to go after the thief. (They will not catch her; Ruby was a track star in high school and college). A few more patrons jump to gather Alex’s belongings on the linoleum floor, placing them on their table. The waitresses that know her hover nearby, asking if she’s okay, offering her water and platitudes. He shoos them away, telling them to give her room as he stands by her side, cradling her shaking body in his steady arms. 

“Alex…Alex…” he says softly and sweetly as he strokes her hair, “You’re fine. You’re safe.”

Her breathing finally slows down, but she jumps at every sound around her. He keeps a hand on her shoulder to anchor her as he watches the patrons collect her things off the floor. Another person brings to them the shredded remains of her bag. He thanks them, puts her things in his own bag, pays for their meal, and leads her back to the car.

“Where are we going?”

“My place. You don’t mind?”

She shakes her head in acquiescence. 

* * *

 This will be her first visit to his apartment and he plans to make it memorable. He pulls out a chair at his table for her and places her belongings on his table in the medium sized kitchen-dining room. Her eyes glaze over her stuff, vacant and empty. She's silent as he busies himself around the kitchen, heating up leftovers and making tea.

“Are you hurt?” he says as he fishes out a tea bag. 

“My back is a little sore, but I’ll live,” she replies.

That's two less thoughts to trouble his mind; he would hate to take her to the hospital and the process to find a new assistant is just a pain overall.

“Drink this,” he says as he places a small mug of tea before her. His pitches his voice low enough so not to startle her, but firm enough for her to know that he will not take no for an answer. She sniffs the cup and her face scrunches up in disgust.

“What kind is this?”

“Chamomile. It’ll help with your nerves.”

She scowls. “I’m not scared Strand, just-”

“Startled, shaken up, terrified?” he counters.

Her shoulders droop, the flash of bravery gone. “Yeah.” There is more to be said than just a singular word, but he lets her off the hook. This isn't the time for prying, but for comfort.

“It tastes better than it smells,” he says, assuaging her doubts.

She eyes the cup nervously, but she puts her trust in him, and she takes a sip. He watches her face contort trying to place the new sensation.

“It’s an acquired taste,” he admits, smiling sheepishly. But it makes her smile again and she continues drinking with small, measured sips.

While she's distracted, he heads to his bedroom and takes out the gift wrapped box in the back of his closet, hiding behind a stack of old books. When he comes back, he finds her in the living room, seated on the large, navy blue couch. Her legs are tucked underneath her and a book he is sure came from the pile on the coffee table is on her lap. Her eyes are glued to the pages as she slowly drinks her tea, careful so not spill any on the book. She looks up when she hears his steps beside her. She furrows her brows at the sight of the box in his arms.

“I don’t remember it being Christmas today, Richard.”

He grins and lays the box on the table.

“What’s in it?”

“Open it and find out,” he says.

She ponders on his request before curiosity gets the best of her. She puts the book, pillow, and tea aside and tears into the wrapping eagerly. She gasps when she sees the messenger bag amidst the light blue wrapping paper.

“The interns told me your birthday is next weekend. I saw this the other day and I just knew you would love it. But today at the cafe, well, I just wish I could give this to you under better circumstances.”

Out of all the reactions he expects from her –blushing embarrassment, sorrowful rejection, calm approval- jubilant laughter that makes her curl up into a ball and threatens to send her tumbling off the couch is not one of them.

“Is something wrong, Alex?”

It takes her awhile to do so, but she finally recovers, wiping tears that have gathered on the corners of her eyes.

“Oh Richard, my birthday is in August!”

He smiles, turns his head away bashfully. To her, it looks like he's trying to hide the intense shade of pink coming into his face. But in reality, it is to hide the smirk creeping into his lips. Of _course_ he knows her birthday is in August, he didn’t have Melissa bribe a nurse for Alex’s medical files merely for the fun of it.

“Is it to your liking?” he asks quietly.

She answers by taking the bag out of the box, feelings the cool leather in her palms. She makes her way back to the kitchen and begins packing her belongings – her keys, wallet, notebooks, pens, cell phone, camera, and other little things. His plan worked. He tosses the remains of her old bag in the trash unceremoniously. She only says that it served her well.

To make up for the fiasco at the café and as thanks for his gift, Alex makes them dinner, a simple pan-seared chicken with vegetables and rice. He asks if she needs his help, but she rejects it and tells him to leave it all to her. (He likes when she takes charge.) She lets him pick the wine at least.

The rest of the evening is pleasurable; her cooking is delicious and pairs well with the wine, and the conversation is light-hearted, straying away from the attack. They get lost in the other’s presence, and its only when she takes a look at the clock does she realize how much time has passed. And with it, the spell around them is broken and reality takes over. 

“I can prepare the guest room,” he says, hoping she will take it. He bites down on a frown when she turns it down.

“I can’t ask anymore from you today, Richard. And I don’t want to impose.”

“May I at least give you a ride home?”

Thankfully, she accepts. He walks up to her room. And before she heads in, she wraps her arms around his midsection and pulls him into a tight, blistering warm embrace. He returns it, though not with the same passion. He doesn't want to agitate the bruises on her back. 

He sleeps alone, like all the other nights before. But sooner or later –and hopefully sooner- she will join him in bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! My apologies for such a long wait time, I just hope it was worth it! Let me know what you think!


	5. Interlude 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her arms wrapped around herself, digging her nails into her leather jacket as though the self-inflicted pain could make her stop her impeding crash and burn. But she kept on pacing.

It's a late night in the Strand Institute office in Chicago. Most of the lights are off in the absence of the faceless, nameless cluster of employees. They are the little cogs -cleaners, minor researchers, financiers, public relations, scholarship students- that kept the bigger and more important gears -Melissa, Jenna, and Ruby- turning. 

By eleven, Mel would’ve breathed out her final yawn of her shift before she decided to close up and lock up shop, go home, get a quick bite to eat, and join her husband in bed in the safety of their gated community. Jenna would head straight home (a condo she and her husband rented), have a late dinner with her spouse, and then go to bed. Ruby would go back to her studio apartment, drink a beer, eat whatever leftovers were still fresh, and then pass out on her ouch with her favorite horror movie as white noise. 

But instead of juggling between eating hot, salty fries and driving, Mel is in the brightly lit atrium of the institute, sitting on a desk with Jenna seated in a leather-back chair to her right. Instead of taking in the welcoming, warm smiles of their husbands, they are watching Ruby pace back and forth, leaving impressions of her vintage Doc Martins into the expensive hardwood, spiraling further down the rabbit hole of panic.

“For the love of god, Ruby, calm the fuck down,” Mel says, trying to disguise her own quickening worry as bored, dismissive scolding.

“Ruby, darling, please tell us what’s wrong,” Jenna says, calmer and softer than Mel.

Neither of them are mothers. Both of them know they don’t have the time to raise a child. So they have to dive into the recesses of their memories to mimic the tones their own mother’s used whenever they copped an attitude. Jenna is more successful, having to help raise her younger siblings. 

Ruby wrapped her arms around herself, digging her nails into her leather jacket as though the self-inflicted pain could make her stop her impeding crash and burn. But she kept on pacing. 

“Ruby, please,” Mel pleads. Begging on her knees isn't her style, but if it means getting an answering out of the tight-lipped young woman…

Ruby keeps pacing, but her hands find their way into her dark hair, tugging on the long strands as though she is trying to rip them out. They can see the tears forming despite how tightly shut her eyes were. The older women move from their perches, reaching out for Ruby. But as soon as Mel’s hand touch Ruby’s shoulder, the younger woman breaks, falling to the floor, curling up like a baby, and wails. 

“ _He’sgoingtokillmehe’sgoingtokillmehe’sgoingtokillme,”_ Ruby chokes out. Mel and Jenna quickly pull her into their arms, rubbing small circles on their friend's back, cooing encouragements into her ears in a desperate attempt to soothe her.

 _“He’sgoingtokillme!”_ she screams again into Mel’s shoulder.

“He isn’t going to hurt you, Ruby! Strand wouldn’t dare. He hasn’t hurt any of us, he won’t start now!” Melissa says, stroking her friend’s hair. 

Jenna eyes her carefully. Faint, vintage worry lines that grace the corners of her eyes deepen with worry. Melissa only shakes her head. 

 _What about what happened last time?_ , the glare in Jenna’s eyes say.

Melissa narrows her eyes in response. _He was drunk when that happened and I said things that shouldn’t have been said. It was an accident. It’s in the past._

(There's a reason Melissa wear lipstick. But now is not the time or place to bring it up. It will only send Ruby further into hysterics.)

“I didn’t mean to hurt her! I wasn’t trying! I did what he told me to do; grab her bag, cut it up, and run,” Ruby sobs. Though mostly muffled through mascara stained fabric of Mel’s blouse, their sharp ears could understand ever word.

“And you did that just fine, my dear,” Jenna says, letting her hand rest on the middle of Ruby’s back. 

A few more minutes of reassurances and promises of protection, they manage to coax the young woman off the floor and to stand. Her shoulders and posture are slumped, her eyes set to the dark wood, and every limb is shaking. She is a far cry from the usual “talk shit get hit” rebel that stomps through the office and barks order at the underlings much older than her. Before them is a reminder of the unspoken truth between them; that all of them wear some kind of mask to make work easier. Mel’s and Jenna’s are smooth, painted, porcelain reinforced and refined by time and charm. Ruby’s is a devil mask from a seasonal Halloween store that crops up randomly at malls in September. Terrifying at first glance -made more so with a baseball bat, youthful, bitter, sarcasm, and scarred knuckles- but it's merely paint and rubber. One firm, solid, tug could rip it off and send its wearer flailing.

(They don’t judge. They were once rubber too. Ruby will get better.)

A sharp ring echoes through the atrium, startling all the women in the room. Ruby’s shaking worsens as all of them check their phone. They realize it's Ruby’s phone. It's Strand.

Ruby stares at the screen blankly, the blood draining from her face so quickly Mel thinks she's going to faint. But with trembling fingers, Ruby manages to tap the screen and answer the call.

“You’re on speaker Dr. Strand,” Ruby says. 

“That’s fine. The plan was successful. Thank you for your assistance Miss Carver, do treat yourself with your next raise.”

“Dr. Strand?”

“Yes Miss Carver?” his voice now erring on annoyance, like he has better things to do. 

“How’s Alex?” she says. If there's an award for keeping one’s voice level while talking to the landmine field that is Dr. Strand, then Mel will nominated Ruby in an instant. 

Strand pauses. The women collectively take in a deep breath and wait. They all wish they can see him so they could gauge his reaction. (Of course that in itself is futile; Strand has an impeccable poker face). 

“Understandably shaken up and frightened, possibly has some small bruising on her back. But I assure you, Miss Reagan is doing just fine. Have a goodnight, Miss Carver.”

Strand hangs up before she can respond.

They stand there for what feels like hours, all of them staring at the black screen in wonder and in fear. 

“I’m safe,” Ruby says, her voice a mere whisper. She leans on Jenna again, placing her head on Jenna's steady, square shoulder. Her slight but deceiving frame hangs off of her friend like a rag-doll. Her eyes are focused miles off to the Chicago skyline. Jenna and Mel wrap an arm around Ruby’s shoulder, squeezing them gently.

“We’re safe,” Mel and Jenna say, mostly to reassure Ruby, partially to reassure themselves.

 _For now_ , they all think. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you guys thought!


	6. Interlude 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alex, I think you need a break,”

“Alex, I think you need a break,” Nic Silver - her best friend in the whole wide world since high school freshman intro biology- says as he stares, enthralled and disturbed, at the mountain of manila folders and loose leaf papers balanced precariously  on her desk.

“I already had a vacation Nic,” she says curtly as she adds another stack of folders to the pile threatening to keel over and spill onto the floor. She doesn’t need or want another mess to clean up. She stops the fall of documents by using a small box containing Strand’s research notes as a support base. It’ll have to do for now until she and the interns can start sorting through all the paperwork that she and Strand have amassed over the past few weeks after her return from the cabin. Just because she took a break doesn’t mean the mystery of Strand and his family, demonic cults, and evil babysitters took breaks either. Either she swims and keeps herself afloat and on top of her work, or she drowns in a sea of lawsuits and pissed off people.

It’s like college all over again.

“I don’t mean a break as in vacation; I’m talking about a short, one day excursion to recharge,” he says quickly. Too quickly for her liking, it means he already has something planned behind her back and no matter what she says can stop him.

It reminds her of Strand when he gets into one of _those_ moods of his, the classic, mule-headed _'I know what’s right’_ assertiveness that seemingly plagues every middle-aged, white man in academia. But she keeps that comment to herself. The day she truly compares her Nic Silver - budding conspiracy theorist with boyish enthusiasm for mystery- to her Dr. Richard Strand -self proclaimed professional paranormal skeptic ( _his_ words, not hers) - is the day she gives up her career in journalism.

_Over my dead body_ , she thinks.

So she does what she’s done in the past to avoid further conflict, she sighs and concedes. She wonders how many times she’s done so while in the office and when with Strand, probably too many to count. If her life was a drinking game…

_Take a shot every time Alex Reagan becomes a pushover just so she can be forgiven quicker and so she can continue being an idiot. Have 911 on speed dial._ Maybe a little wordy, too complicated for the inebriated, but it’ll have to do for now.

“What do you have in mind, Nic?” she says, mindlessly flipping through Strand’s meticulous notes, admiring the quality of his handwriting rather than the contents, mostly to give her hands something to do besides shake. Priorities.

“I was thinking of hosting a party.”

She looks up -so quickly her neck twinges in protest- and the looks she gives makes him take a few steps back. The word ‘party’ conjures up all sorts of images and stresses she rather not deal with.

“Not a big, blow out, frat party we used to have back in Washington State!” he adds, back pedaling to lessen the damage, “A little get together, PNWS only: you, me, the interns, and the rest of the staff. Just like we used to do in the old days.”

That phrase “the old days”, plucks at a nerve she wishes was stronger. She puts down Strand’s notes and looks Nic in the eye.

“How long _has_ it been since we hosted an Office Game Night, Movie Night, hell, just a night together in general?” she says.

Nic counts the months on his fingers. Thankfully, he only resorts to one hand.

“Four at least, maybe five. Last one was shortly before we started work on season two, excluding holiday parties of course. ”

“But,” she says, the folders teasing her with secrets and progress, “with all this work. And Strand-“

“I think Strand can handle you taking a day off to relax a bit. He’s a grown man.”

“Still though…”

“Alex, be honest, since coming back from your vacation it’s been nonstop work. I get it, we all get it. We’re not asking you to give up the story; we’re asking you to put it aside for a night of fun, drunken shenanigans, and table flipping when someone blue shells us. “

When she doesn’t respond, he keeps going.

“The interns miss you, you know? I miss you. We want our friend back, just for a short time. One day and night every few weeks, that’s all we'll ever ask from you.”

She looks at her mountain of work one last time, too ashamed to look her friend and coworker in the eye.

“I’m so sorry Nic,” she says, and like that, the flood gates of cold, passive-aggressive, coworker interactions shatter, “For everything, for being a horrible friend and a god-awful journalist.”

Nic only shrugs, but the small smile forming is warm and welcoming. She envies his abilities to let water roll of his metaphoric feathers, or at least hide it better than she does.

“I won’t lie to you; you are reckless and danger-prone. But you are not a horrible person. I’ll fight the bastard that says that to you.”

She smiles, gets up and bumps her shoulder against his, a gesture of good faith they invented in college that they never gave up on.

“Even though I know you will, don’t worry about planning. The interns and I have it all under control. Just sit back and try to relax.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs-in good fun of course- because she knows what will likely happen with the interns taking the helm of planning. Nothing apocalyptically bad -no dead bodies or horror movie torture traps- but something that would make Nic‘s “Chaotic Neutral Half-Elf” start looking for the exit in cold sweat. And going by the few times she sat in on his DnD sessions, those things were akin to The Number God feeling petty or angry wasps in a treasure chest.  A few bumps and bruises, sure, but by night’s end they would have a story that would go down in PNWS history, a tale that would be passed by the interns and would spread like wildfire into Seattle, another myth etched into the city.  

Strand will probably have a field day over her taking a day off, possibly setting them back in their investigation. But he’s not here and some of the work he can do by himself. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. Besides, she’s sure he has better things to do than spend a night having fun. Fun and Strand just don’t compute, incompatible, do not pass Go, and do not collect two hundred dollars.

So she grins, matching Nic’s mischievous one that reminds her that she’s talking to the very same man who thought it was a great idea to leave his phone behind while gallivanting in the woods for a story. But she trusts him and she trusts her interns. God only knows where she would be without them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience and for reading this! Please let me know what you think about this chapter!


	7. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He should be worried, with only a day to plan an outfit and to find a gift for the hostess. But if the interns think this is going to stop him, he’s going to show him that a few snarkish comments, ugly looks, and underhand tactics are not going to deter him."

The PNWS interns are just like Alex: tenacious, energetic, and sharp as brand new knives. They have to be, or else Alex and her team wouldn’t have taken them in. But, behind those cheery smiles and child-like propensity for pranks, he knows they all possess a vicious, bloodthirsty desire to see him gone. A desire that he has yet to convince Alex exists within her  _ darling _ interns. No matter what he says, no matter how many times he’s fallen victim to one of their “harmless” practical jokes, she brushes him off with a light-hearted laugh and a smile he can only describe as judgmental.

_ “They’re only college students _ ,” her disembodied voice teases playfully as he waits outside her office for their meeting, “ _ How can you be scared of them?” _

He not scared of them, per se. There are worse things in the world than arrogant college students. He’s well aware of the fact that he’s not welcome in the PNWS office. He doesn’t need a degree to see the glares they send him when he walks past or hear the insults behind his back. He’s more worried what they can do to ruin his progress in wooing Alex. They may be students, but they are students under  _ her  _ watch and care. First and foremost, the interns and their safety. Everyone else, including him, much to his displeasure, comes second. 

But while he’s a part of Alex and her show, the interns will just have to deal with his presence in the office and by her side. Not that he has any intentions of leaving anytime soon.

Three interns -- no one is brave enough to face him alone-- pass by, but immediately stop when they see him. They hover nearby, taking shelter behind the corner, narrowing their eyes as they watch him stand outside their boss’s door. He can pick up faint traces of gossip that flutter between group members like stage whispers. They have brashness down to an art form, but they never quite figured out subtlety. Some lessons in covertness and manners from  _ his  _ assistants would do them wonders. 

“Look at him, standing there like a lovesick idiot.”

“He doesn’t deserve her.”

“He doesn’t even have a fucking chance.”

He tries to ignore them, but their insults make his skin itch like mosquito bites on a humid night. Some things never change; the cruelty children can possess is one of them. 

“The sooner Alex drops him and his family drama--”

“The better off we’ll be.”

“The better off  _ she’ll _ be.”

He finds himself clenching his fists as blood rushes through his body, energizing his muscles, and preparing him for a confrontation that he knows will never happen. For all the glaring and bravado, they’re too cowardly to act on it. For a brief second, he wishes they would throw the first punch, just to have Alex walk in at the opportune moment and swoop in to his rescue. He indulges in the thought: no permanent damage, just broken glasses and a sore jaw at most, and Alex would hold him in her arms as she fires the brats right on the spot. Personally, he’d rather be the one doing the rescuing, but if it means getting the hellions off his back…

“Well, at least he won’t be at the party.”

He perks up like a dog on a scent trail, but before he can make a move and demand an explanation, the door swings open (nearly hitting him), and Alex Reagan emerges sporting a wide, sunny grin.

“Sorry for the wait, Dr. Strand. Please, come in!”

He can’t say no to her. Well, he’s sure he could, but she’s prettier and easier to manage when she’s happy, especially when he’s the cause for it. All through their meeting, discussing potential leads, interviewees, and dancing around the obvious attraction between them, his thoughts are consumed by this mysterious party and why Alex never told him about it.

Millions of scenarios run through his head, but only two stand out.  The first one is he accidentally deleted the email that contained his invite and the second one --and the mere thought of it makes his blood freeze over-- is that she never invited him the first place. 

_ Ridiculous, Richard. Do you hear yourself? You’re acting like Dumont and Braun _ , he thinks. The voice is not his own; it belongs to his father. Memories of childhood beatings creep up and his back stings like his mother just applied rubbing alcohol on the raw wounds. 

He chalks it up to forgetfulness. They’ve been slammed with more info the past few days and the move from his apartment to his father’s house hasn’t helped. Little things like invites to social gatherings always slip through the cracks. Plain and simple. It’s Occam’s razor at its finest, just like his father taught him. 

Meetings with Alex always seem to go by faster than expected, and before he realizes it, they’re saying goodbye to one another, quickly scheduling another meeting before she ushers in her producers and he’s forced back into the intern infested waters of the PNWS office. This meeting ends like all the others, with enough progress to keep Alex invested, but not enough to sate her curiosity and bring his story to a close. But now the tables have turned. He’s the one with all the questions and she’s teasing him with promised answers behind that so-called innocent, I-know-something-you-don't smile that never fails to infuriate and turn him on.

He  _ should  _ be angry with her. He  _ knows  _ he has justifiable reasons to be upset. He’s jumping through too many hoops just to earn a sliver of her time. All take and no give. Yet he can’t find the strength to nurse said anger, to let it fester like his disgust for her interns. Instead, any lingering hatred is overtaken by desire, the need to prove to her he’s worthy. It’s just a test and all this hoop-jumping --though annoying-- will bring him one step closer for a permanent spot at her side. 

So instead of leaving the premises immediately like he usually does, he lingers in the office, using his own fine skills of subterfuge to gather details of this little party he lost his invitation to. It’s difficult trying to look natural in a setting he doesn’t belong in, coming up with excuses when the observant interns and staff notice him still hanging around. But they easily accept his laughably routine excuses with bored shrugs and dismissive “sure, sure”s. 

In just an hour of eavesdropping at opportune moments, he figures out the date, time, and other details of the party; tomorrow evening at eight pm, casual attire, food and drinks provided. He leaves the building humming and in the brightest mood he’s been in since he gave his last gift to Alex. 

He should be worried, with only a day to plan an outfit and to find a gift for the hostess. But if the interns think this is going to stop him, he’s going to show him that a few snarkish comments, ugly looks, and underhand tactics are  _ not  _ going to deter him.

* * *

Alex calls it getting passionately involved. Nic --bless him-- calls it as it is, unneeded meddling.

“I told you, let the interns and I take care of preparations. Just focus on getting enough work done so you have time to relax!” Nic says.

He jokes about sending her home early so she doesn’t interfere. Only the joke becomes reality when five interns swarm her office, pick up the paperwork and notes she’d been filling, the script she was writing, and haul away the paper mountains off to the open offices the interns share. Try as she might, begging them to let her shoulder some of the burdens, they assure her they can get the work done.

“Why else would you hire us? We gotta earn our credits and keep somehow!”

They leave her nothing, not even a scrap of notebook paper. And for once, she can see the scratched surface of her secondhand desk. She lets her nails follow the notches caused by god-knows-what, wondering what to do now with a suddenly open schedule. 

She thinks of calling Strand and asking him if he’s available for coffee. But the past few days --and the upcoming ones-- are already so Strand-centric. She doesn’t just need a break from work, she needs a break from him.

Strand, Strand, Strand, Strand, Strand. Once upon a time just mentioning his name was enough to send little sparks of excitement down her spine. But now all she feels is a sloshing weight in her stomach when he’s around, like eating too much chocolate ice cream before going to bed. Delicious, hedonistic pleasure at first, painful consequences later. 

She laughs, never thinking the day would come where she would get tired of Strand or chocolate. So she gathers up her things and locks up her office. She says goodbye to the staff and wishes her interns luck before she walks out the door. While heading home, she remembers the mini carton of ice cream stashed in her freezer that she bought for a “special occasion.” An early Netflix marathon will do. 

She needs it, these days where she’s not glued to his side. And, deep down, she knows Strand needs it too. 

* * *

He doesn’t appreciate having to get ready for an outing at the last minute, parties especially. He finds in those hours of panic and stress that he’s sloppier, more prone to mistakes, and his anger harder to control. There are people out there who do extraordinary work under pressure, but he isn’t that kind of man. He likes to take his time to prepare his plans, to groom and cultivate an image of respectability that all women are drawn to.

But now, with only fives hours before he has leave for the party, he swallows his pride and gets to work. Alex is expecting him. 

* * *

Alex grew up consuming the slice-of-life, chick flick films that were staples of the late eighties and nineties.  And despite the narmy, groan worthy acting and questionable fashion choices, they were all saved by kick-ass soundtracks and details that make them less real and more wonderful. (That’s the point of most movies, she argues, to distract and entertain.) Said detail she was always fond of was the wild house party. The lurid, neon lights and basses louder than Gabriel’s horn enchanted her young, wild heart, tempting her to jump through the screen and join in on the fun.

Of course, the fun always ended with the authoritative scratch of the record being stopped when the parents or cops stormed into the house.  

For a long time, witnessing parodies and commercials, she never understood the record scratch that always brought the end to the good times being had. Perhaps it was a part of her that never wanted the fun to stop, that made her hate the dreaded sound. Or maybe it was the thought of good vinyl being damaged that made her blood boil. But the answer that always stood out to her, provided by Nic in one late-and-not-so-sober night at college, was that the record scratch was a decree from God, a deus ex machina. The harbinger to the serious second act of the movie, a message from God to stop screwing around and get back to the plot. 

“And who really ignores a message from God?” her memory of college student Nic slurs. 

She doesn’t quite remember what she said in response. But she believes she said something along the lines of “He can stick the message where the sun doesn’t shine and  _ fucking wait _ .”

(To her credit, it  _ was  _ good alcohol.) 

And speaking of good alcohol, Nic has bought two cases of her favorite hard cider from the little brewery in town. It has too much apples and cinnamon, but it deters her weak-of-heart-and-stomach coworkers from stealing. She only drinks two bottles worth --storing the rest in the mini-fridge in the breakroom-- and balances the alcohol with mini sandwiches an intern made. She’s the type that only needs to be buzzed to have fun, not blackout, passed-out on the couch. Thankfully for her, everyone invited and above the legal drinking age follows the same logic.

They converted the space where the interns usually haunt and work at into their personal dance floor. Desks and chairs are pushed up tightly against the darkened white walls, now painted in neon pink spots by a disco ball spinning above them (courtesy of Nic). One of the interns, who moonlights as DJ on the side, brought in all her equipment for the party, setting up shop at the head of the dance floor like a treasured guest. The songs - a spectacular range of the greatest hits from the 90's to up-and-coming remixes from last month- make the floor shudder and jump underneath her feet. She can barely hear the shrieks of delight and pleas for ‘ _ more more more _ ’ over bass drops and the ringing in her ears. Everyone crowds around her, all wanting the opportunity to dance with her. But despite the densely packed bodies, she never seems to bump into anyone while she spins and dances across the floor. They part for her, cheering her on with closed eyes and wide smiles that are right-side-up and only wish for her happiness to last a little longer.

She lets herself forget and for once, this feeling in her gut isn’t from sadness, insomnia, or lack of food, but of neutral emptiness. It’s a lightness that makes her feel like she’s jumping higher and spinning quicker than is humanly possible.  _ Someone  _ would call it apophenia, she calls it the temporary blessings of alcohol.

It would be a crime against humanity not to enjoy it. So she spins, hoping it never stops until Nic switches the lights on at midnight, tells everyone to go home, and calls cabs for people that need a ride. She’ll regret it later when she’s back at home in bed, but for now, her mental complaints center has shut down and isn’t taking any calls. 

It’s only ten, but the fluorescent bulbs flicker on anyway and angry cries and curses flare up as the music comes screeches to a halt. In her temporary blindness caused by the sudden light flooding her eyes, she crashes into an intern who quickly apologizes and helps her up. 

She blinks, letting her eyes and body adjust to the new settings. The ringing fades, giving away to a heavy silence that drives away the happy feelings, bringing in a dread that somehow sours the aftertaste of her cider. When she finally regains her vision, she sees the once bright smiles on her interns and employees are now scowls and displays of clenched teeth. The spinning bodies are now stiff soldiers in formation. And when she finally sees the source of their anger, she gasps. 

The record scratch --God’s message-- has come and taken form of Richard Strand.

He stands tall and proud before them like he’s meant to be there all this time. She’d never thought she’d see the day where Strand would ditch the suits, but after the past few months of his flannel phase, she’s not even surprised he owns and wears jeans anymore. The first few buttons on his white button down are undone. He has a tie on, blue and silver, but it’s loose around his neck. And cradled in his hands, instead of books, notes, or his leather messenger bag, she sees a deep green bottle. Wine, she thinks, probably the expensive kind. 

Some would call his appearance sloppy. But she knows him well enough to know that this display of disheveledness is manicured, everything is deliberate and in its proper place.

She moves towards him slowly. The interns let her pass, but their motions are forced like dolls with joints that haven’t been wired properly. 

She has to lift her head to look him in the eyes. He grins.

“Sorry I’m late, Alex”, he says when she’s close enough. “Traffic was a nightmare. I got some wine as an apology though. It’s a good year; I think you’ll like it.”

She takes a couple seconds to compose herself, still shocked that he decided to come up from his conspiracy basement to mingle with the commoners. “Richard,” she says, hoping not to let her voice give away her surprise, “what are you doing here?”

He laughs, that amused huff of forced-out air that has the “Richard Strand Seal of Approval” stamped all over it.

“I heard you were hosting a party, so I’d thought I come.”

She tries to smile. That’s what her mom taught her too in an awkward situation. With the Lord as her witness, she tries, but it feels like her skin is being clawed at.

“This party was for PNWS staff only,” she says slowly. His eyebrows furrow.

“Well they mentioned invites, so I checked my inbox and memos, but I couldn’t find any. Probably lost it in the shuffle of moving.”

“That’s because there were no invitations sent out,” she replies, picking her words with care not to incite another infamous debate. “You’re not  _ technically _ an employee. Who told you, by the way?”

“The interns,” he says like she should’ve known already. It’s a tone she’s familiar with, but never fails to make her skin crawl with embarrassment, like she’s not quick enough for him.

She casts a quick peek behind her. The interns have gathered into a small mob, but the glares and evil eyes from moments ago are gone, now replaced with confused glances and furtive whispering. A few seconds of deliberation later, one of them speaks up from within the crowd.

“We didn’t tell him anything!” they cry out. The rest grumble in agreement.

She turns back to Strand, his smile less proud and more embarrassed like she caught him stealing from the cookie jar.

“Perhaps ‘told’ isn’t the correct word. I overheard them talking about it after our meeting.”

Her foot stops tapping and the interns go quiet like the grave.

“Alex,” he continues, “when I’m not at my house, I’m here with you and the others. I’m practically an employee, aren't I?”

He flashes a smile and offers her the wine bottle like an olive branch, like he offered her the black tapes all those months ago. But instead of taking it, she pushes his hand away. She doesn’t mention all the hours she’s spent researching for him.

“Alex,” he says, hurt by her refusal of his gift, “I just wanted to spend time with you. Is that a crime all of a sudden?”

There’s no truly ‘polite’ way to say what she wants to say. So she throws a prayer to the old man in the sky and a quick apology to her mother.

“I wanted to spend this night with my friends, Strand.”

“Am I not your friend then?” he fires back, eyes narrowed and freezing cold. And in an instant, the pleasant, weekend getup veneer crumbles and reveals the stuffy suit their audience has come to know. 

The interns begin shouting, hurling curses. She’d planned for a million scenarios, and she planned an equal amount of responses. She didn’t plan for that one. And if she doesn't act quick. She fears a riot will break out. 

“Well, of course-” she says, trying to recover. But he continues his attack with ease.

“I took the time to have a pleasant evening with you and this is the attitude I get?” he says over the din. 

“Richard it’s not-!”

“After all we’ve been through and what I’ve sacrifice for your show? After putting me in danger for slander and defamation, this is how you treat me?”

Somehow, despite all the ruckus, his final words seemingly cleave through the noise and silence the interns once more. She tries to reply, but the words die and falter when she opens her mouth to speak. All she can do is take it, like all the times before. She braces herself and waits, staring Strand in the eye. 

Strand, thankfully, seems to have the decency to look ashamed when he realizes the gravity of his words. He retreats, taking quick strides out of the room, and slamming the door behind him. The interns are still too stunned to go after him. Alex rushes out and manages to catch him by the stairs. She finds him leaning on the guardrail, eyes closed, head hung low, and his body shivering with every heavy breath he takes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, barely above a whisper, with a sincerity never before captured in any of his other on-tape apologies. 

This sudden whiplash of having platitudes instead of verbal barbs leaves her reeling. But if apologizing means keeping Strand from leaving her high, dry, and without a story, she’ll do it.

Her journalism ethics might be questionable, but she knows damn sure she has morals.

“I’m sorry too,” she replies, moving closer. Something in her tells her to. 

“No. No, don’t apologize,” he says as he takes another step back. His voice shudders over every word. Maybe in the past, she would’ve been pleased with herself for making Strand apologize to her like a nervous child, making him more like a normal human with other emotions besides stoic glumness and scathing disregard. But now, the thought of taking pleasure in any pain of his makes her stomach twist in disgust. 

She reaches out to touch his hand, to reassure him. He flinches and she withdraws. He looks up at her, not a difficult feat considering his height. A grand 6’0, dwarfing her 5’5. But his slouched shoulders, kicked-dog frown, and the wrinkles at the corner of his pleading eyes make him microscopic compared to her. 

“I have to take some of the blame,” she responds, “I should’ve told you earlier, but I just didn’t think you’d be interested, that’s why I didn’t invite you.” She shrugs. “And, to be honest, you don’t exactly strike me as a loud music and heavy drinking party-goer.”

She offers him a shy smile. He smiles in return, it’s small though. She can only see it because of how close she is. 

“I’m sorry for intruding,” he says calmly, “I’ll leave.”

She offers to walk him to his car and he accepts her request.

Her dress and light cardigan don’t protect her from the chilly spring air, but it doesn’t seem to bother Richard. She teases him of being a walking furnace and he plays along with her gentle prodding. The walk to his car is filled with practiced off-the-wall banter, the kind found in the podcast. It’s not the easy, laid back kind she’s accustomed to when they’re out and about having lunch or standing in line for coffee. She keeps cycling through her mental dictionary, trying to come up with better words to chase away the tension. But in the end, as they approach his car, all she can do is say the tried and true “I’m sorry.”

He laughs, a gentle chuckle caught in the cool breeze. Despite his infuriating habits, he has many more that make up for it. That laugh --the way he tilts his head to the side, how the lamplight bounces off his glasses, how he looks younger and at peace with the world-- is one of many she admires. 

“Are you going to keep saying sorry for the rest of the evening?” he asks.

She wrings her hands. “Only until I can up with a better way of apologizing.”

He holds out the wine bottle again. The glass glimmers in the light, promising her something ridiculously luxurious. It screams, “You can’t afford me in your wildest dreams.” Of course Strand would have it. 

“Melissa says it’s from France, really old and expensive . She claims it’s good, but I’ve had this sitting around and collecting dust for years. I think you and your interns will enjoy it more than me.”

Tempting as it is --who turns down free, fancy, French wine?-- it’s a luxury she can’t even let her cheap-beer-and-micro-brewed-cider loving ass accept. She gently pushes the bottle back to him.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t accept this.”

He sighs. “How about dinner then?”

Now free food -- whether take-out, fast food, or high end-- is something she can always accept without guilt. It’s a universal, safe currency that anyone can understand. And honestly, who turns down free food? 

“I like the sound of that. You pick the place.”

They set a date and time for dinner, he assures her that he has a perfect place in mind. And after another brief round of “I’m sorry” and “No, I’m sorry”, Strand finally leaves. She watches the red taillights flicker until they disappear when he turns a corner.

When she returns to the office, the party has returned to full swing like nothing ever happened and she joins in a dance circle with a laugh.

She comes homes with a warm stomach full of good food and drink and a handful of blurry memories to compliment her college student collection. Through her haze of exhaustion, she manages to carry herself to her bedroom before she collapses on her bed.

* * *

 

Strand arrives to find his house as he left it: empty, still, devoid of life and personality. (Just like his father.) There are moving boxes scattered about and a soon-to-be finished furniture restoration project of Ruby’s sits peacefully in a corner between two bookshelves. The upstairs area is more composed, with only one box left that contains some miscellaneous books not pertinent to his research. He kicks that box aside, letting it slide down the hall as he enters the guest room he converted to his bedroom.

He refuses to sleep in the assigned master bedroom. He’ll turn that into a guest room, or perhaps a study when he runs out of room in the basement. 

He realizes the wine bottle, the gift he picked out for Alex, is still in his shaking hands. 

He examines it for faults and errors like smudges or cracks in the glass or faded ink and misprinted words on the label, anything to explain why she didn’t accept it like he hoped. Anything to explain why she pushed it away and rejected it. She accepted the sweater, she accepted the watch, and she accepted her goddamn bag. So why did she turn this one down? He searches for an hour, but the bottle is in the same state as he got it, pristine and perfect.

Still, he has a date with her next weekend. It’s another opportunity to impress her, to show her what he’s made of. Another chance to give her the wine. It’s better than nothing, but the victory feels cheap, like getting the silver medal  instead of gold. Cheap describes the people that claim ghosts and psychic abilities are real. He’s many things, but cheap isn’t one them. 

He planned to dance with her as everyone watched in envy and admiration. He planned on sharing and emptying the bottle with her, to see her indulge in the luxury he provided. He planned on making sure she got home safely,  guiding her into her bedroom, and helping her in bed as she mumbled how grateful she was to have him by her side. Then she would lean forward and try to kiss him, but he’d stop her like a proper gentleman, and assure her there would be plenty of kisses waiting for her when she sobered up. 

(Just the little things.)

Instead, when he showed up, she was dancing with everyone --even the lowly interns and her so-called best friend, smiling at everyone, having fun without him. Heaven help him, she was wearing a dress, the hemline swirling and crawling up as he watched her dance. All he wanted to do was pull her away to a quiet hallway or empty office and let his hands roam all over and watch her writhe under his touch. But no. The fucking interns had to be there. 

If he came to her apartment, where she was alone and away from her prying coworkers, he knows she would’ve been more receptive.

He flings the bottle at the wall, imagining it hit the smug faces of the interns. He watches it shatter, the shards tumbling to the floor and the contents dripping and staining the old wallpaper. Anyone with some love of wine --die-hard or hobbyist-- would be appalled; collectors would certainly have him executed.

He’ll clean it up tomorrow. He’ll do better next time. He won’t let his anger get the best of him, he’ll watch his words, and he’ll play nice. He’ll be the man his Alex deserves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Please let me know what what you thought about it!
> 
> Special thanks to breathedeep222 and smilodonmeow for beta-ing this chapter!


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